Broken
by darkintrigue
Summary: For every romance that is considered there is always another that stays in the dark. A figure sits alone, and mourns her loss.


Sometimes, when I'm alone and it's quiet I look at my life and I wonder where I went wrong, what did I do to deserve this? You might pass this off as melodramatic angst, uncalled for, especially now. I can understand why. The hero of the tale is not I; I do not even take the place of the heroine by his side. No, I'm the shadow in the background, always there but never remembered. There was one man, once upon a time, whose attentions made me feel special, coveted. My life ended with his departure. His death made me the broken shell I am today. Reminding me that I am nothing special, unworthy of the limelight or trifling affection.

I miss him so. The way he looked at me, his tawny eyes piercing my soul, making my breath catch in my throat. The way I used to be able to run my fingers through his hair, hair so thick it caught and snagged in my nails, but soft. Always so soft. The perpetual beard shadow along his strong jaw line, defining and screaming his raw appeal. I miss the lips that used to capture my own in a sweet embrace, his teeth lightly nibbling the pink flesh of my own mouth. The lips that used to whisper such glorious questions and joyful words. _Where do you want me to kiss you? I could never forget you. _

I yearn for the feeling of his nose rubbing against my own, nudging me awake so he could lavish his attentions on my unworthy self. I long to nip his ear, tease his neck with nibbles and kisses before sighing contentedly and burying my nose in the nape of his neck. I wish I could hide there with the smell that is so uniquely he while he covers the tender skin of my collarbone with feathery kisses. I want to run a finger lovingly down his cheek, grinning mischievously as I elicit a reaction from him, a slight sigh and a closing of the eyes. Not much, but from a guarded man it means the world. Ah, to be able to trace the black lines of the inked design on his right bicep, squealing in delight at having found a secret, something no one else knows about him. 

I crave the passion that flooded through me as I ran long fingers down his torso, working his skin as he caressed me in return. The feeling of being protected, cared for as he cradled my head in his hands as he kissed me. It made me feel tiny, vulnerable in need of safeguarding and I knew he would take care of me if I needed him to, no questions asked. My heart aches for the fingers that stroked my cheek, my hair, my arm, the fingers that entwined with my own digits. Even now I fancy I can hear his voice, telling me of his past, his guilt. The guilt that drove him away from life, from me. _I can't control it. I want to, I want to do this properly._

I don't know what I feel. So many years, so many experiences that could have divided us and set us apart. But still, something more powerful than those factors drew us together, if only for a short while. Is this what love feels like? To feel that a part of your soul is missing when you're parted from your lover? If so, then although I felt I had experienced love before I was wrong. 

I call for him, leave him notes, willing him to come back to me, to tell me that it's all right. That I don't need to be alone anymore. He never replies; I don't know why I keep expecting him to. He's gone. The loneliness that I so fear threatens to consume me, but I can't cry, I won't. I have my friends to get me through this. My _friends_. I owe you much. Thank you for being there.

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A/N: Well that was _intensely_ therapeutic. Ref, Pierson, yunalesca78, nakigoe-chan, Vincent Kinneas and noacat, this one's for you guys. I'm sure you can all guess what for and the symbolism of this. Oh God, I sound like a teacher, symbolism and stuff. Meh. Well, I'll rattle on. Bored, so sue me. Stop reading if you want. See? Better. Now, die-hards, I am on day 4 @ 10pm of my holiday and I'm writing a nice angsty fic. Something is very wrong with me I feel. Pairings in this? I'm thinking Aurikku, but I guess it could be adapted to anyone. Enough from the suicidal author, am away to get drunk with parents. 


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